


carry

by yosgay



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: (many spoilers), Amusement Parks, First Kiss, M/M, Panic Attacks, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 21:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11239131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yosgay/pseuds/yosgay
Summary: Three times Akira came home to Akechi waiting at Leblanc, and one time he didn’t.





	carry

**Author's Note:**

> big endgame spoilers here! be careful my friends

The first time Akira comes home to find Akechi sitting at the counter of Leblanc, he’s reading the paper and sipping his coffee like he’s just another regular. Morgana makes a soft noise of alarm from the bag on his shoulder, and Akira pauses in the doorway a few seconds too long, letting in the the cool night air and earning a critical look from Sojiro for his trouble. He’s not sure whether to shuffle past without notice or boldly approach him -- and ends up doing neither.

Instead Akira catches his eye, and Akechi smiles, light and easy. Akira finds himself fighting one of his own as a reflex, but it’s disarming and contagious, and in the end, he can’t quite help himself. _Whatever,_ he thinks, and sits down, Sojiro already halfway to pouring him his own cup.

“Ah, Kurusu-kun.” Akechi takes another sip, that fond smile never leaving his face. “Nice to see you again,” he says, and Akira could almost swear he means it.

It’s not so much conversation, when they talk; it’s all carefully chosen words and cautious pleasantries on both sides, but it’s not what Akira expects. It’s simpler, and he can shift his weight through it easily. He doesn’t know why his guard is all the way up as if this is a palace, security level on the rise and shadows at every turn -- but Akechi’s much different than he is on television, and this is no interrogation. 

He looks smaller sitting next to Akira, despite his actual height; shoulders hunched and practiced perfect posture gone to hell as he curls in on himself, perching atop the stool like someone years his junior. He looks so young, and all in all much more _ordinary_ , and Akira finds himself relaxing into it.

They don’t chat long and about nothing particularly important -- Akira can tell they’re both deliberately avoiding any mention of the Phantom Thieves, dancing around it with practiced steps as they go. 

But Akira still learns. 

He learns that Akechi laughs easily in a breath, closing his eyes and covering his mouth slightly with a gloved hand when he does. He doesn’t know if Akechi’s easily impressed or if _he’s_ just somehow impress _ive_ , but he hangs on every word with a beaming light in his eyes and tosses around the word _fate_ like it’s weightless. But, fair’s fair, because Akira’d be lying through his teeth if he said he doesn’t feel the pull too.

He learns that the years Akechi loses with bad posture he gains back when he tucks his hair behind both ears, showing off his sharp jaw and slender neck. He learns there’s a birthmark, dotted there under his left eye. He learns, this close, that his skin’s not the porcelain doll’s that the TV cameras make it, and his eyes slowly flick between freckles and acne scars and tired eyes until the world-famous Detective Prince is just, simply, Akechi.

But Akira’s not staring, of course. No, not if he can help it.

He learns that Akechi takes his coffee with lots of cream and sugar, and took a long time to acquire the taste -- and that he’s a little embarrassed about that fact. But the little sheepish grin and dusting of pink in his cheeks teaches Akira something, too.

He wonders what Akechi’s learned.

When Sojiro has to close up and Akechi reluctantly (but respectfully) gets up to leave with an apologetic little bow, Akira has to do a double-take at the clock when he sees how much time has passed. They’ve been talking for hours. It’s way past closing time for the café. (And though he probably wouldn’t admit it, he suspects that Sojiro may have stayed open a little later, just for the two of them.)

Akechi’s still smiling, as he had been the whole conversation, like he’d never had a normal one about the weather before. As he walks him out the door, Akira says he should come back sometime, and Akechi agrees; and somehow, he thinks they both might actually mean it.

\---

The second time, after a day of running his lungs dry and stuffing his face with Ryuji, Akira's half-expecting him already -- unsurprised when he's sitting there at the counter in what's quickly becoming his usual spot. Sojiro looks him up and down as he walks into Leblanc, a lazy scrutiny he’s already used to, and offers him no more than a nod in greeting. 

"Honey, I'm home," he says, with a cheeky half-grin, thumbs hooked in his pockets, and lets his eyes slide pointedly from Sojiro to Akechi. 

Sojiro does little more than raise an eyebrow but Akechi chuckles, light and easy, and doesn’t even miss a beat. "You're back awfully late."

"You keeping tabs on me now, detective?" 

He laughs again, something deep and ringing and genuinely amused, and Akira exhales amusedly through his nose, shaking his head, and sits down at the counter without bothering to leave a stool between them. “Something like that,” Akechi says, and doesn’t shift away, even as their legs brush.

"What're you reading?" Akira asks a little nosily, and Akechi shifts the page towards him so they can both see the article without him losing his place. Akira quirks a brow. "You like amusement parks?”

Akechi side-eyes him. “You don’t?”

“Love ‘em,” Akira shrugs. “You just didn’t strike me as the type.” He points to the picture of a roller coaster and ferris wheel framed there on the page, tapping it once. Akechi hums. “That’s not far from here, either. You been?”

Akechi sets the paper down, shaking his head. “Sadly, no. Not much time for, ah, _amusement_ with work, I’m afraid.”

Akira snorts at the bad joke. He tilts his head, taking in the boy next to him and realizing for the first time, in conjunction with everything else he knows about Akechi, how sad that sounds. Ryuji doesn’t like him, he’s made that pretty obvious -- and Akira’s slow to discount the judgement of his friends when this boy is very clearly onto them, and very clearly a threat, but still -- here, like this, he seems nothing if not _lonely_. But not as down, when he comes around Leblanc. 

Part of him loses tension sitting there reading when no one’s around to watch. Marginally, maybe, but it’s something.                                                         

Growing up in the public eye can’t be easy. There’s no room to breathe under a microscope, and Akira’s certainly no stranger to that kind of scrutiny. He deserves small comforts, at least, like the rest of them. He should relax more often, Akira thinks.

So, he says: “wanna go?”

\---

Akira leans coolly against the far wall of the entrance to the amusement park, and gives Akechi a shameless once-over as he looks around like a lost child trying to look capable, fidgeting with the hem of his gloves. He’s not sure if he actually believed they were going through with this, growing visibly more furtive the closer they got -- it’s a very public place, after all. Though, he seemed willing enough to take the ride, and to talk, and laugh, joke. 

Akira casts Akechi an amused look when their eyes meet, crossing one leg and tapping the ground with the tip of his shoe, daring him to turn back to Leblanc. “So here we are,” he says, blandly broaching, a smile hiding in his voice. “We going in, or what?”

Akechi raises his eyebrows, the ghost of a smile on the corners of his mouth despite his obvious and very real hesitation. “And if I’m recognized?” he ventures, crossing his arms and fixing Akira with a look that’s just shy of challenging. “You’re fine with this?”

Akira snorts, “are _you_? Look around,” he says, with a dismissive wave of his hand at the sparsely populated courtyard. “Nobody’s paying attention to us. You’re just Akechi -- no royalty here.” Akira slides his hands back into his pockets, tilting his head and peering at him, expectant. 

Akechi’s eyes flash briefly at that, expression flickering to something darker and more contemplative, but it’s replaced in a blink with another disarming smile. It’s close, and almost enough to make Akira think he’s imagining things; he’s a great actor, but Akira’s looking close, and it’s not quite convincing enough. He lets it go though, shifting to fix his glasses and pretend, for his sake, that whatever it was, he missed it. He tucks it away, letting this piece join the others in the scattered jigsaw puzzle of his mind that makes up Akechi Goro.

Whatever else, he’s starting to prefer that smile, anyway.

“Well, in that case…” Akechi starts, makes a show of considering, thumb and forefinger cupping his chin. “I supposed it couldn’t hur-- wh--!” he starts, before Akira rolls his eyes and grabs his hand with no further preamble, trying not to laugh out loud at how genuinely caught off-guard Akechi is. He drags them both to the ticket booth, and pays himself, before Akechi can say anything to the contrary. 

\---

“Ah, look at that,” Akechi muses out loud, casting his eyes up to the expanse of metal and colorful hanging seats above them. “I always wanted to ride one of those, since I was young.” He sounds wistful, and a little regretful, like the tail end of a bittersweet memory is carrying his words. 

As much as he’d like to indulge, a shiver goes through Akira as he looks up, neck craned back to see the very top. “Yeah, no thanks. Not for me. But,” he says pointing across the way to a smaller model, about half the size (and probably designed for children, but who’s counting), “that one’s fair game if you’re up for it. Whaddaya say?” Akira’s sure hoping he’ll be game, because even though Akechi would have to drag him along kicking and screaming to ride the real thing, it’s a good middle ground for Akira to at least _try_ to show him a good time. 

Akechi considers this for a moment, like he considers everything, pursing his lips and looking it up and down as if for clues to a case. Akira wonders if he’s ever made a knee-jerk decision about anything, a day in his life. He laughs inwardly, thinking about how long it must take him to do stupid shit like grocery shopping, or folding his laundry. 

“Lead the way,” he says eventually, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing widely, and Akira does.

They end up looking pretty stupid waiting in line with a bunch of kids who barely come up to their waists, as tall as they both are. But even besides his height, just by the way Akechi carries himself he looks so out of place it’s almost funny, and Akira really has to hope his promise that nobody’ll recognize him will hold out. He’s not exactly helping the situation, though. He didn’t even bother to change out of his uniform. Akira exhales through his nose and rolls his eyes at nothing.

When their turn comes in line, they give the attendant an apologetic look and take a bright red seat shaped like a strawberry, right behind two little girls who are way more excited about this than them. It’s a tight fit and definitely not meant for two grown boys, and it has Akechi hesitating.

“After you?” says Akechi.

Akira chuckles and climbs on in, hoping the bar will close over his legs that are nearly folded to his chest in the cramped seat. When he’s in he nods his head toward the spot next to him, patting it cheekily, and Akechi follows with a roll of his eyes, pressing the line of their bodies together as he settles. The tips of Akechi’s ears are red, and Akira purses his lips against a laugh. 

“Comfortable?” he says, with a crooked smile.

“A bit… snug,” Akechi tries, stiff as a board and starting to match the bright red of the car.

Akira laughs but as they start to rise, his grip on the bar tightens just a little, before he sees that they’re no higher than the rooftop at school. He puffs out a relieved breath.

Akechi chuckles, and he’s loosening up, likely at the fact that he’s not the only one who’s frazzled. “Not a fan of heights, I take it?”

“Not crazy about them, no.”

“Need me to hold your hand?” he says innocently, eying Akira, and he almost sounds _serious_.

Akira snorts, and raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Wow, _smooth_. Didn’t know you had it in you, detective.”

Akechi bubbles out a chuckle like he can’t hold it back, but doesn't follow through, keeping his hands tented at his lap. Akira lets it go, because he can’t decide if this is flirting or if Akechi’s just really that oblivious -- but he really doesn’t believe the latter. Still, he lets it go, because it almost seems like he’s _trying_. 

The lazy arc of the ferris wheel is slow as it rises, humming mechanical background noise to cover their breaths and heartbeats. 

They’ve got nothing but time.

They both look out their respective windows at the rides and running kids below them, taking in a pretty nice view. He’s not really uncomfortable, but Akira finds himself crossing and uncrossing his legs and drumming his fingers, a little fidgety in the cramped space. Akechi’s still rigid, seemingly determined to politely keep his weight rested on the metal door rather than the comfort of Akira’s side, but when he sneaks a glance, his ears are still glowing red.

"So..." Akira draws out the word, casting around for a topic when the silence turns a little more expectant, "how'd you become a detective so young, anyway?"

Akechi smiles, but it looks forced and bitter, a scowl hidden in his brow. "Never had much of a choice," he murmurs, though Akira doesn't know why he bothers. This close, he might as well be yelling in his ear. Akira purses his lips and tilts his head, and he brightens right back up -- but not without visible effort. "Just a childhood fantasy, I suppose you could say." 

Watching his expressions flicker all the time, and replace, and repress, and prop themselves up on his face like an old rag doll on an even older stand -- it all looks exhausting. 

And Akira tells him so.

"You know," he turns away, facing the window and letting a breath carry his words and fog against the glass, "you're allowed to just say it's none of my business."

He feels Akechi go still again against his side, and he rests his head lazily on his palm, almost listening to the gears in his head turn. He isn't speechless often, and Akira's sure it won't last long, but he wonders how much time it'll really take to sift through that metric ton of bullshit. He _knows_ , of course he knows -- but doesn't hold it against him, though. They've all got their fair share. He draws on the foggy glass with an upturned fingernail until he realizes the picture is turning into his mask, and rubs it away.

He glances back at Akechi, expecting to be caught, but he's not watching. He's staring out the front window of the little car, face blank and placid. Akira licks his lips, and tries not to be disappointed. 

"You're right," he says, firmly, but not unkindly, folding his hands in his lap. "It really is none of your business."

"Fair enough," says Akira.

"Yeah," he says, with a world-weary sigh, and rests his head against the glass, turning away from Akira completely. “Fair enough.”

\---

The third time is a warm smile traded for a knowing nod as Akira walks down from his room late in the afternoon, the familiarity and ease of true teammates -- no matter how short a time it’s been -- bleeding into each subtle gesture. If Sojiro notices (and Akira’s sure he does), he doesn’t comment, wordlessly setting down Akechi’s order and disappearing into the back of the cafe.

“What to do today?” Akechi wonders aloud, flippancy lighting in his voice even as his face stays hidden behind this morning’s paper.

“You tell me,” Akira says lazily, propping his head up with a palm against his cheek, and yawning indulgently. 

Akechi tuts, and folds the newspaper back into order. “The decision’s on you, naturally. _Leader_ ,” he drawls out, with as much of a smirk as he can manage while still looking like a child in on a secret. Akira would be lying if he said he didn’t expect that Akechi would take to things so easily, but the results are much different than he would’ve thought.

Akira stands up with a breath and taps his shoulder once with the knuckles of one hand, heading towards the door, knowing full well he’ll follow.

\---

The park’s deserted today, the weather being as it is. Akira didn’t bring an umbrella, so they’ve taken shelter under a little gazebo in the middle of the park, even though it’s barely any more dry. 

Akira didn’t bother to check the forecast this morning, even knowing it’s the rainy season. It’s his own fault, really, but he _is_ curious -- Akechi doesn’t seem like the unprepared type, but here they are, huddled together with their blazers pulled up over their heads like a couple of idiots.

"So tell me," Akechi starts, a little loudly to be heard over the downpour, "what do you think of all this?" 

He doesn't gesture or hint at all, but Akira knows what he’s getting at, meeting his eyes with certainty. Instead of taking the bait, he hums. "It's pretty interesting." Akechi makes a small noise of assent and he’s got this look like he’s on the edge of his seat, and then Akira continues, "but I think I like the park better when it's dry."

Akechi looks at him for a long moment, and then his lip quirks up like he's fighting against it, and he's laughing, covering his mouth half-heartedly, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

He shakes his head, but the smile never leaves. “Why did you invite me here, I wonder?” he says, like it’s to himself, water dripping off his bangs and nose. “And why keep indulging these conversations? You have far better things to do with your time, surely.”

Akira sighs a laugh, because it seems like everyone is telling him that lately. “Nope,” he says simply, ticking one shoulder up in a shrug. “All yours today.” Akechi smirks then, cheeky and unguarded, like he knows, and doesn’t care to hide it. 

“Guess we better make the most of it then,” he says, and drags him into a kiss under the pouring rain.

\---

Today, when he comes home, the cafe is cold. 

It’s nearing winter after all, and the tiny space heater in his room does little to help the ever-present chill in his bones; though he’s pretty sure the middle of a summer heatwave wouldn’t thaw him out. 

Not today.

Today, he passes Sojiro with little more than a nod, carrying it all like a pillar on his back, more weight that he can easily justify. His knees wobble as he grabs the railing to the stairway and steadies himself with Morgana’s soft purring, asleep in his bag. He can hardly stand. And maybe there’s no real reason why, maybe it’s just the exhaustion from traversing a Palace; Akechi only came in a few days a week, after all.

He should have seen this coming.

Nothing is certain in the Metaverse, and Akechi’s been playing with fire for years now. More than that, though, they barely knew each other. Someone dies every what, four seconds? It’s not like Akira’s special in any other way than the Wild Card. He can’t fix everything, Igor’s told him as much. Someone dies every three seconds, someone grieves every four. He should have seen this coming. Nothing, nothing, nothing new.

Except it _is_ , though, it’s crushing and helpless and _done_ , and Akira has to stop to force a breath before he climbs the stairs to his room, holding himself rigid as to not wake Morgana. Which he will, if he doesn’t stop the fucking shaking. 

This case has gone on years longer than Akira knew. It’s bigger than him and the others, and it’s ended more lives than he wants to think about. But this wasn’t another casualty of the case. It doesn’t look the same, no matter the angle, and Akira’s not callous enough to chalk this up to another unfortunate statistic in the long line that abusing that world has claimed. 

He _wasn’t_. This was a loss, _their_ loss. One that he couldn’t prevent, one didn’t have to be. 

One that Akira knows he’ll carry.

His room is colder than downstairs, poor insulation and all that; but Akira’s shivering, involuntary full body shakes that he can’t blame on the cold anymore. His breathing, shallow and stabbing, he can’t blame on the cold anymore. 

He touches his forehead and stares dubiously at his fingers when they come away dry. He’s bleeding, he _knows_ he’s bleeding, he just can’t find the wound. His hands run roughly through his hair in search until he’s pulling, pulling, tearing, ripping, but he can’t _find_ it, and who’s screaming so loud, why is his throat raw, what the fuck is that noisenoisenoise _noise_ \--

“ _Akira!_ ” Morgana’s voice, and claws, sharp to his forearm, drag him out of his own head until he realizes he’s on the ground beside his bed, dark strands of hair fisted in his white-knucle grasp before he lets them drop. He looks around wildly, covering his mouth with his hand, a steady stream of confused tears rolling unbidden down his cheeks and dotting the hard wood floor. He scrubs them away roughly like they’ll stain, dragging nails down his cheeks when they won’t _stop_.

Morgana flicks his tail nervously, nuzzling against his knee, and he looks _scared_. Akira still feels the blood, and the clicks of Morgana’s claws against the floor are too loud, too _loud._ They sound like gunshots, _those_ gunshots, and Akira clamps his head over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. He feels Morgana’s paws press on his leg, tapping and trying to get his attention as best as he can, but he can’t look. 

His jaw feels wired shut and he’s sure that if he wrenches his eyes open now, he’ll see Akechi standing there, a gun to Akira’s head, or maybe Akechi’s own. He can’t look. He can’t look. If he looks, the plan will have failed, and it’ll be him sitting there in an interrogation room, all hard lines and cold metal, staring down the barrel and into the tired eyes and pockmarked face of a child just as lost as the rest of them. He could _swear_ he felt the bullet in the real world that day, double or no. 

And he thinks of how they sat, so often, pressed thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder like they'd known each other all their lives. He thinks of when he caught the first glimpses behind the facade, Akechi's carefully constructed persona crumbling with every lingering touch. He thinks of their kisses, fleeting and careless and as sweet as that first cool summer rain.

He thinks of _Goro_ , weak and vulnerable and alone and scared and hurt and used and so fucking _angry_ and in those last moments every _bit_ as much of a Phantom Thief as any of the rest of them. 

He thinks of the boy beneath the mask. 

And he can't breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> (He reaches within himself to a deep rift, a gaping wound that will never close, and feels a warm stir of power surging through him. He licks his lips, breathing out fire and brimstone and an anger that lights a fuse in the backs of his eyes as he stares down the god responsible. He raises his hand, and feels the air crackle with unspent energy.
> 
> The name spills out of his mouth like honey, like cold water to his desert-stricken throat, like a prayer to anyone other than _him_.
> 
> He breathes it out, and it tastes sweet, but mostly bitter.
> 
> He can feel him watching, lending power. A power he'll use to lay him to rest, finally, finally end this.
> 
> "Metatron, _come._ ")
> 
> (i'm so sad lol)


End file.
